


Before the Battle

by edibleflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nerves run high the night before the final battle, both for the Inquisitor and his love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick bit of fluff that was going to be porn and didn't go in that direction. Inquisitor is Aranel Lavellan.

Though the way to Haven is known and well-traveled now, with so many pilgrims and refugees having taken it as they made their way to Skyhold, it's still a journey of more than a day. Aranel would rather be there now, this very moment; when he thinks of Corypheus casually opening the skies once more, making mockery of everything the Inquisition has worked for, anger inflames him, makes him itch with desire to face the monster at last. He can, now; he's learned and trained and fought so much since their prior confrontation in Haven, and he knows that with his companions by his side, they'll end Corypheus's grand ambitions for once and all. But though he wants to press on, to keep going until the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes are in his sight once more, he finally yields to Cassandra's insistence that they stop for the night.

They are few, this time; a handful of scouts and soldiers, a few chevaliers who were at Skyhold when the challenge came from a newly-torn wound in the heavens. His friends are here, too, those everyone else has taken to calling his inner circle. Vivienne, Madame de Fer; Sera, with her searing arrows and fierce beliefs; Blackwall, the false Warden who's found his own measure of truth. Solas, who helped him to survive and guided him to Skyhold. Cassandra Pentaghast, the Seeker, whom he hopes will be a new Divine to the people of Thedas. Cole, the strange, sweet spirit bringing merciful death. Varric, whose pragmatic counsel -- and witty stories -- he's come to rely upon. Iron Bull, the Qunari mercenary who was and continues to be entirely his own man. And Dorian. Dorian Pavus, the Tevinter mage with whom he's fallen in love.

Dorian, who follows him into his tent now, heedless of who's watching. The mountain air is cold; inside, furs are piled on a camp bed beside a brazier of burning coals to stave off the chill. Dorian nudges Aranel to the bed and then turns to lace the tent flap behind himself as if it were another night at Skyhold and he was locking the Inquisitor's chamber door against the world.

Bemused, Aranel sits and begins to remove his boots. The cold air on his stockinged feet makes him shiver. He's gotten more or less used to the slightly chillier mountain climate of Skyhold, but here there's only a heavy canvas tent between them and snow. When Dorian turns toward him, he makes a disapproving sound with his tongue -- _tsk, tsk_ \-- and reaches to pull the furs back.

"Don't bother," he says. "Just get in."

"Bossy tonight, aren't we?" Aranel replies, but he does, his feet immediately warmed beneath the piled furs. Dorian just smiles, a remote amusement dancing in his eyes, and undoes his own tunic and shirt in moments, then all but hops out of his boots before sliding in under the furs with Aranel.

In the tent's semi-darkness -- the glowing coals of the brazier are the only light, and that a red, unhappy one -- Aranel can just see his lover's face. Dorian's trying to hide it, to be brave, but Aranel can see the hint of moisture in Dorian's dark eyes, the frown pulling at the corners of Dorian's mouth despite his intent.

"Stop," Dorian says suddenly, and kisses Aranel. It's hard, Dorian's tongue seeking into Aranel's mouth with no finesse or gentleness, but Aranel responds to it anyway. He works a hand out from under the covers and sinks it into Dorian's hair even as Dorian's fingers begin fumbling open the clasps of Aranel's jacket.

Aranel has to pull back at last, catching at Dorian's hands with his own. "Not like this," he says. They're already making the bed shake, and he can feel that a couple of the heavy furs have fallen to the ground. "We can't."

"I need," Dorian mutters. He pushes in for another kiss, but Aranel brings his hand to Dorian's chest, holding him back just far enough. Dorian gives a defeated sigh and drops his head, burying his face against Aranel's partially-exposed chest.

"You're not losing me," Aranel says at last.

Dorian makes a weak sound like a snort and looks up at him. His eyes are red. "You say that now," he says, in a tone that's a mere shadow of its usual wryness.

"I mean it." Aranel's hand is firm on the back of Dorian's neck. "And if I'm wrong, I promise that you can lecture me about it at great length later."

"You--" Dorian starts, and then he snorts, dark mood dissipating all at once. "Yes, I certainly will give you a very stern talking-to if you do go and die on me tomorrow."

Relieved, Aranel relaxes a little, drawing the man down to him again. "And I'll do the same for you."

"Oh, no. No, no, that won't do at all. If I die, I expect great floods of tears and remorse at how heartless and cruel you were to me mere hours before I perished in brave defense of the Inquisitor." Dorian's grin has fully returned now, a smirk buried deep in the corner of his mouth. "Followed by a state funeral in which you will, of course, be weeping and bereft, draped forlornly over my glass-sided coffin--"

"Glass-sided!" Aranel sits up with a laugh at that.

"But of course! I will be the most handsome corpse Thedas has known, and it isn't fair that anyone should be deprived of the view before I'm taken off to my pyre, now, is it?"

"No one's getting burned on a pyre," Aranel laughs, an ineffable feeling of tension lifting from him as he watches his lover's smiling face.

"No," Dorian says, a little more sober now, bringing a hand up to caress Aranel's cheek. "No one is dying tomorrow. Not you, not I, nor any of our friends. Only that jumped-up darkspawn pretender-God."

"Whatever it takes," Aranel murmurs, and closes his eyes, turning his head to rest it against Dorian's. He can feel himself relaxing, finally; he's still anxious about tomorrow, about what may come, but with a few hours of rest with the man he loves in his arms, he knows he'll be ready to face it.


End file.
